Shadows and Fog
by DharmaGirl07
Summary: Skittery has never been one to let anyone under his skin -- until he meets a down-and-out prostitute trying to help her brother and still stay afloat. OC. History not really taken into account. Reviews always appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A young man pensively blew out a wreath of cigarette smoke. He looked about seventeen, with a set jaw, careless slouch, filthy clothes, and brooding brown eyes. He leaned against a post on the porch of a building, while night fell silently around him. New York City – somehow the bustle always seemed to go away when night came. All the carriages and horses took their passengers to their last stops, and as people began to settle into their homes for the night, the only people left awake in the world were the poorest workers finishing up their tasks. This young man fell squarely into that last category. He was a Newsy, peddling the paps and headlines every day since he was eight. Not that he ever minded, much. Another young man, perhaps fifteen, wandered up slowly, as if it took all his energy to put on foot in front of the other.

"Hey, Skittery," the newcomer greeted the other. The first nodded politely, and took another slow, long drag. The second pulled a worn cigarette from his pocket. "Got a light?"

The first wordlessly held out the end of his smoldering smoke. The other young man puffed away until it caught. He too took a long drag and, satisfied that his cigarette was properly lit, he also slouched against a pole.

"So I met this girl last night," began the second, as if the conversation he now started had really been going on this whole time, "and I sees her again today. I think she kinda's takin' a shine to me, Skittery. I just doan' know what to do next."

Skittery chuckled faintly, took one last, loving drag, and stubbed his cigarette out on the ground, grinding it into the pavement.

"You know I'm the last person you oughta ask about this kinda stuff, Mush," he rejoined.

"Ain't you ever been interested in girls before?" Mush broke out incredulously.

"I ain't never seen one that I like that much yet."

"You sure are a hard one," came another voice from the darkness. A third young man, perhaps a little older than Skittery, strolled out of the street. For the first time during this whole interlude, Skittery gave a light smile.

"Hey, Cowboy. How's business?"

"Not too shabby, if it's any 'a your concern." He had the thickest of all the New York accents present, and Skittery vaguely wondered if his friend knew what an art it must be to talk like that. "I agrees with Mush. Ya oughta find y'self a pretty girl. Then, you wouldn't feel so hard and lonesome anymore, ya know."

"Who says I'm lonesome, even if I am hard? And anyway, not everyone can find a beautiful dame to help 'em get through the days like you, Jack."

Jack smiled and shook his head, as if to say his friend was missing out.

"It would help if you looked," a fourth voice called. Tones of good humor laced the words, and everyone looked up expectantly.

"Hey, Race," they all greeted simultaneously. The new boy, who looked young and old beyond his years at the same time, puffed away at a dwindling cigar and pulled at his cap.

"How're the tracks today?" Mush asked.

"Ah, you know . . . unlucky."

A few of them chorused that it was too bad to have such a streak of bad luck, especially what with his brains for races. Race spit a piece of disintegrated cigar onto the pavement, made a clucking noise of dismissal, and sat down on the curb. He peered through the gloom of the smoggy New York City night, already poorly lit by sputtering gas lamps, at the surrounding scenery. Something caught his attention, and he raised his head.

"Now see, you's oughta get yourself a dame like that one," he remarked, pointing down the street at a young woman.

"Hoowee, ya really oughta," cried Mush, slapping Skittery on the back and grinning broadly. Skittery rolled his eyes, but looked dutifully across the street. There, with an air of one familiar with the dark streets, somberly walked a young beauty. Her hair, a light, long brown, was curled into cascading ringlets covered by the most diminutive of hats. Her skirts flowed around her in a frothy mixture of lace, frills, and ruffles, and her cinched bodice showed off all the elegant curves her young figure could muster. Feeling herself scrutinized, she turned her head slightly to glance at the party of ill-dressed, dirty Newsies. All of them wore broad, knowing smiles, except for one. She narrowed her eyes and glanced at him closer. He followed her every movement, but his eyes were a dark blank. When admiration and lust shone in the eyes of the others, she could discern nothing from his face. Almost as if he had offended her, she hitched her chin and her skirts, and began to march down the street. Her boots made a smart clicking noise as she radiated her disapproval. The others laughed and slapped each other.

Cowboy turned to Skittery.

"She would be a fine dame to go with, but I think she's outta your price range," he commented, screwing up his face like he was breaking bad news. The others laughed.

"Why should I care? She's nothing but a broad," Skittery intoned, his voice detached.

"Ah, you're right, Skittery. Don't bother with her, and you won't get your heart broken, anyhow. Le's go in; I'm bushed," Race suggested, concluding the meeting for tonight. He and Jack headed inside. Mush took one last drag on his cigarette, then followed suit into the building. On the threshold, he turned. Skittery was still leaning, his expression inscrutable, against the porch post.

"Ain't you coming?" Mush asked.

Skittery shook his head slowly.

"Nah, I'm not tired yet. I think I'll stay out for a while longer."

Mush, long used to his friend's moods and manners, merely shrugged and headed back into the boarding-house where all the Newsies lived when they weren't slogging away at their occupation. Alone now, Skittery watched the street where the young woman had disappeared. Somewhere, some memory of home life and proper behavior and obligations nudged him angrily out of his seat, and, after a minute of inner struggle, he headed off in the same direction, his hands shoved resolutely in his pockets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Skittery followed a short pace behind the woman, muttering softly to himself.

"I shouldn't be following her; so, why am I?" He shook his head in disgust. "Y'ain't never gonna wise up, are ya, Skittery?"

He gave one last shake of his head and turned to follow the bobbing curls. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. At least that made his job of seeing her safely home easier. While Skittery was focusing on the swish of the girl's skirts, however, a hulking man lumbered out from the shadows of an alley, but the inexplicably strong smell of whiskey caused him to readjust his focal point. The man veered unsteadily in the lady's direction.

"C'mon, Clara, let's go back to my place. Whaddaya say?" He barely managed to slur the sentence out, but somehow he got the question directed at her.

"Thanks, but no. I'm expected back," her voice rang out, sure and clear. Skittery edged forward, closer to the unlikely couple.

"Aw, c'mon, Clara," the drunken man wheeled, moving to cling at her sleeve. As soon as he latched on, as if the touch prodded her into action, the woman named Clara struck out with her umbrella. Yelping, the man began beating at the umbrella, which was raining blows upon his head, knocking his hat off. Braving the barrage, he reached up and down, simultaneously, to pin both the woman's hands at the wrists. At this, Skittery raced forward with a cry.

Flying headlong into the fray, Skittery landed a solid right hook into the man's jaw with a satisfying crunch. Shaking out his burning knuckles, he pulled his fist back again, this time feeling blood on his hand, spurting from the newly broken nose on the man's face. The fight was not out of the assailant yet, however. As if the whiskey made him impervious to pain, the man merely squarely his shoulders, and, with a string of obscenities, head-butted Skittery in the stomach and raised him over his shoulder, bringing him down with a resounding thud of his own. Lying on the cobbled pavement, stars popping in his head, Skittery gulped like a fish, eyes wide and staring, trying to find the breath to fight again. Instinctively knowing he had to get up, he struggled to his feet, and, feinting to one side, landed a weak punch to his opponent's kidney. Backing away, still scraping for breath, he raised his fists in front of his face. The man glared at him, and spit out a gob of blood and saliva. Skittery began yelling threats and obscenities and moving toward the man, hoping he could scare him away without throwing any more punches. He didn't know how many were left in him. The man seemed to decide that the girl wasn't worth it, and, with his eyes still locked onto Skittery, limped off into the darkness. The hero let out a sigh of relief in a burst of violent energy. Quickly, he took stock of his wounds. A bruised stomach, a sore back – not too bad. He'd seen much worse fights, fights that had left him recuperating in bed for days while a kind friend or two scraped some food for him from their own meager earnings. Suddenly remembering the reason behind the fight, he looked around for the lady. Her umbrella still raised, she was pressed against a wall. He stood looking at her. She looked back at him, her breathing ragged but her jaw set.

"Are you okay, Miss?" Skittery extended a hand. She ignored it.

"Yes. Thank you." She stalked past him. A look of disbelief spread slowly across his face.

"That's all I get for saving your life?"

She tilted her head back and laughed, short and sharp.

"Saving my life? Let's not joke. I can take care of myself." She began to walk off again, but Skittery jumped and planted himself in front of her.

"Oh, yeah? Says who?"

Her eyes flashed.

"I says. That's who." She raised her umbrella threateningly, but he grabbed her wrist tightly. His jaw twitched.

"Funny – it looked like I had to care of you just now."

Giving him a look of self-righteous anger, she ripped her arm out of his grip. He heard the distinct sound of tearing cloth.

"Get out of my way," she growled. For a split second, Skittery's face contorted. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, and he whipped her around to face him.

"I don't think I will," he growled back. They stared at each other for a minute, rage pulsating through their veins, seizing each other up. Finally, she sighed impatiently.

"Fine," she hissed through gritted teeth. "What do you want?"

Skittery gently released her wrist.

"I want what any knight in shinin' armor wants – to walk his lady home." He bowed melodramatically. A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

"Well, alright then."

Skittery brightly extended his arm. She took it, and they walked slowly off into the despondent night.

"So, do you have a name to go with that independent streak, or what?" Skittery asked after a few minutes.

"It's Clara."

"No last name?"

Finally, Clara laughed, and the natural peals echoed off the lonely alley walls.

"Sanderson."

"Clara Sanderson, eh?"

"I'd say you've got it," she joked. "And what's the name of my knight in shining armor?"

"Skittery."

"Don't you have a real name?"

It was Skittery's turn to laugh.

"Back when I had a real name, it was Avery. James Avery."

Clara bobbed her head.

"Pleasure, Mr. Avery."

"And how does a pretty girl like you come to think she can give a drunk lout like that a good beating?" Skittery asked, turning a stern eye on Clara.

"I've got three brothers, as a matter of fact, who taught me some useful tricks," she returned defensively.

"Ahh – the three magic brothers." He exaggerated looking around. "I don't see any of 'em walking you home; why are they making me, a poor Newsy, do it for 'em?"

"Well, none of them live around here anymore; I'm all that's left in this neighborhood."

"So, what do they do? Why are they off somewhere else, without taking care of you?"

"Well, one of them's a Newsy up in Spot Conlon's territory –"

"Spot's one of the best," Skittery interjected.

"Oh, I know, I know. I don't begrudge my brother a vocation with a young man he respects, but I do wish he was around more and worked at something which paid more. He does visit as often as he can manage, though."

"And the other two?"

"So do you like being a Newsy? Spreading information and such?"

"It's not so bad," Skittery replied slowly, a frown spreading across his face. He couldn't understand why she had shied away from the topic of her brothers right then. "But I don't know much about spreading information; all us Newsies are more interested in turning a profit than bringing news to the masses, y'know?"

Clara murmured an assent. Raising her head up, she examined the building in front of them.

"Well, sir, this is my stop."

"Do you live by yourself? Should I walk you up to your place?"

Clara blushed. Skittery barely noticed it in the dark, but he did. When he leaned forward, peering at her face in a futile effort to learn more, she blushed deeper.

"I-I don't live by myself, and I think I can take care of myself for the next three steps." She gently disengaged her arm, moving toward her building the faint clacking noise from her boots. Skittery watched her go.

"Can I walk you home tomorrow night?" he called.

Halfway up the steps, Clara turned. She smiled.

"I walk this way every night."

And with that, she disappeared into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Bleary-eyed, Skittery absentmindedly mixed his shaving cream into a frothy texture. He'd come home late the night before, having walked the streets long after he dropped Clara at her home. He'd had a few things to turn over in his mind. An unthinking elbow bumped his own, spilling a dollop of the shaving cream. Skittery turned angrily, but came face to face with Jack Kelly, also shaving.

"Aw, sorry Skittery, I didn't mean'a bump your elbow," he apologized.

"It's no big deal," Skittery replied, shrugging. He lathered his face. A thought occurred to him. "Hey, Jack, you know that dame last night?"

Jack grumbled in agreement.

"Well, what d'ya know about her? What kinda dame is she?"

His friend stopped shaving abruptly, and turned to glare piercingly at Skittery.

"What?"

"What did Race tell ya 'bout the dame?"

"Not to think 'bout her, I guess."

Jack blinked, as though his friend was a slow learner.

"And what are you doing right now?"

Skittery blushed.

"'Xactly," the Cowboy replied. "I'm telling ya, that broad's trouble, and ya better stay away, if y'know what's good for y'self."

"What's that supposed ta mean?"

He gave him one last look, and then turned back to his shaving. Skittery thrust his jaw out in frustration and turned back to his own partly shaved face, but continuing while angry only gave him a few nicks, instead of further information from Jack.

The day passed unextraordinarily. He carried the banner in a semi-sonambulatic state, focusing his energies more on thinking about Clara than selling paps. Try as he might, he could not shake the questions he had about her out of his mind, nor the remembrance of her bright eyes and billowing skirts. At the same time as the night before, he found himself leaning dutifully against the same post, again smoking a filched cigarette. Presently, as promised, she came in sight. He could not have said why, but his heart caught in his throat.

"Hey, look, it's that same girl again, Skittery," Mush cried with a yelp of laughter.

"I see, I see," Skittery growled, his face inscrutable.

If Clara noticed him, she never gave a hint. He watched her walk by, alone. There were still a few of his friends lingering on the steps to the boarding-house, so he waited until she turned a corner out of sight, and then he stretched and, with an excuse of not being tired yet, walked off in the same direction. Once around the same corner and out of sight, Skittery picked up his pace until, out of breath, he came up alongside her.

"Hello, Miss Sanderson," he said with a wave of the hand. "How are you tonight?"

"Hello, Mr. Avery," she returned primly. "I'm fine, although the weather seems to be turning colder. And yourself?"

"I'm well, thanks." He extended an arm like the previous night, and they walked together in silence for a minute or two. "Y'know, I gots to thinking 'bout all the things we talked about last night, and y'know, ya never did an'ser me 'bout your brothers. Ya told me y'had three, but y'only mentioned one of 'em. Why? What 'bout the other two?"

Clara drew in a deep breath as if she were steeling herself for the conversation ahead.

"So kind of you to point out my mistake, Mr. Avery." She gritted her teeth. "Well, one of my brothers is in school right now, as it so happens. His name's George. I send some of my scrapings to him whenever I can."

"And the third brother?"

"He's dead."

Skittery instantly regretted prying further into her business. It really hadn't been his place. He cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry."

Clara shrugged a little.

"It's been a long time . . . 'bout twelve years now."

He looked down into her face, seeking out her eyes.

"Jus' because it's been a while, don't mean the hurt goes away." He pressed her hand sympathetically. "I got a sister been dead eleven years. Still miss her every day."

"I'm sorry," she replied softly, glancing up at him from underneath her eyelashes. She cleared her throat. "But how'd you get here? You've told me about a sister, but what about your folks? The rest of your family?"

"They all died a long time ago," Skittery began, chewing on his bottom lip. "I-I don't really remem'ber my ma and pa. They died when I was 'bout five in a pretty bad factory accident; I don't remem'ber what factory it was or what kinda accident it was or anything. After that, my older sister raised me for a while. We used t'go try and peddle flowers and junk like that, y'know?"

He paused, thinking back. Clara watched his face, trying to read the fine print. He gave a little sigh and a sad shake of the head.

"She used t'take such good care 'a me. Always looking out for me, telling me stories so I wouldn't get so scared, always giving me the bigger portions . . . ." He trailed off, his eyes far-away.

"What was her name?"

"Huh?" And back. "Oh, her name was Ruth."

Clara fidgeted with his shirt-sleeve.

"How'd she die?"

"Well, we was out peddling flowers later than usual, and it started to rain. I didn' think much of it, since we was always getting rained on, and snowed on, and what not. But this time, Ruth got sick. I were only eight; I didn' know what to do." He stared at the ground. "She died in the gutter and got carted away by some stranger who said it was his job to clean up the refuse."

Tears welled up in Clara's eyes. To be so young and to have so much on his shoulders! But she knew too well the burden he had to bear. So, like every other time, she bit back her tears. Beside her, Skittery got quiet. For now, her silent struggle had gone unnoticed.

"My sister was a lot of things, good, kind things, but she never was refuse," he mumbled distantly, like the thoughts of the girl next to him were a million miles away. "But," he began, tone completely changed, "that is the very true story of how I got my start as a Newsy. See, I got sick, too, and some poor bastard hauled me off t'da Newsy boardin'house. I didn' stay at that boardin'house too long, but the profession stuck wi' me. And hey, how'sabout this!" He pointed. "It's your building again!"

Clara smiled faintly.

"Funny how time flies, huh?"

"But just when you're havin' fun." Skittery squeezed her arm, catching her eyes. All of a sudden, it was as if she was trapped in them. Their pull was magnetic and mesmerizing. It took all of Clara's self-control to break the connection. She coughed quietly and started up the stairs.

"Will you be walking this way tomorra night, too, Miss?"

"I always do."

With that, she smiled one last time, lonely and sad, and left Skittery, alone now in the deepening gloom.


	4. Chapter 4

The deepening shadows of evening crawled further and further down the street. Like the knelling of a warning bell, they crept. Nothing was beyond their grasp – not nook, cranny, crevice, or crack. The darkness seeped into all the fissures and spaces of nothingness. Tonight, the emptiness of the shadows consumed Skittery. The stars winked less brightly, somehow. It was as if the darkness not only crept along the pavement but reached up into the sky as well, and down through his throat into the pit of his existence. Years ago, he vaguely remembered an old woman, during his time of sickness, tell him a fantastic story, about a young prince. This prince had an evil uncle who wanted the powers the young man possessed – for, you see, he was no ordinary man. When you looked into his mouth, down his throat, you could see the whole universe there. Standing on the sidewalk, the darkness kept expanding inside Skittery, until he felt like the young prince. Only, this time, instead of holding the universe at bay with his powerful grasp, it might just engulf him, dragging him into the blank, dark unknown.

He gazed up at the towering heavens. Faint though the pinpricks of cosmic light were, he felt like they were the only solid thing to which he could relentlessly cling. Then, something on Earth caught his eye. There – walking on the opposite side of the street -- was Clara. The stars lost all their lure as Skittery stared, transfixed, at the elegant figure. A great moving was inside of him -- a shifting. A welling of raw, potent emotion rose up within him, and the universe churned inside its prison, then was still. He was the master. For now.

And now around the curve.

"Good evening, Miss Clara."

Her bronzed eyes danced, flicking back and forth between her good sense and her good humor.

"And to you, Mr. James."

"Partic'larly fine weather we've been 'speariencin', wouldn't ya say?"

He held out his arm, like a thoroughbred, while the ballet reached a crescendo. And now the dénouement. The stage hands assist in the removal of Good Sense.

"I would say so," Clara remarked, winding her arm within his.

The power of an emptying theater grabs the audience by the throats, silencing them on their way out. The muffled courtesy echoes off the alley walls – or should we say the balcony? Yet so fleeting is the moment. Another comes, and the last dissipates.

"When we was talkin' yesterday, ya never said what it was ya do for a livin', Miss Clara."

"Oh?"

Just as the wearied theatergoers file out, Good Sense makes a stunning reappearance.

Skittery slowed and faced her, determination etched in every line. She saw no escape.

"I's got friends who say lotsa things. But they says things to me, and I can't help but listen." His eyes rise up, carefully, to meet hers. "I hears them, but hopes they're not true." And away. "I hopes they're not true, 'cause that would mean that a certain girl I'm starting to take a fancy to is working harder than I would wish." Cautiously, they come back, and hold Clara's helpless eyes irrevocably.

"A girl's gotta eat." Out it comes; the care-worn excuse. The undeniable truth.

"So it's true? You're a lady of the night?"

Hedging. A chewed lip. A shrug of the lacy shoulder.

"So what if it is?"

Reassuring pressure on her hand, still almost painfully held within his.

"Well, a girl's gotta eat. Jus' as long as I know the truth."

"Y'ain't upset?" Clara looked shocked. Skittery shrugs.

"It busts the hell outta me. But what am I gonna do about it now, except try to help?"

"You make it sound as if I were in trouble," she said, half-laughing.

"Miss Clara, you've been constantly in trouble since I met ya," he shot back, laughing too and reveling in the knowledge that for now she hadn't rejected him. His laughter died down. "_Are_ you in trouble?"

Grateful for the concern on his brow, Clara lifted her hand up and stroked the sun-worn cheek.

"You said it y'self. I'm always in trouble." She glanced up. "How is it the walk seems to be shorter every night?"

She moved to go, but, shy yet firm, Skittery held onto her hand, bringing her progress up short and jerking her back, close into him. Another hand instinctively went to her waist, curling into her side the way men's hands do, pulling her in tighter. Having no other choice than to look up, she is forced once more into a corner by those eyes, and is fatally trapped. He leans back his head, staring intently at her face from underneath his eyelids, as if he were running over every aspect of her physical features in his mind, storing it up for the long hours ahead with nothing but rustling paps. Something long dormant begins to surface, and he is compelled.

"So? Do you like me?"

Clara blushed, vaguely struggling.

"What an impertinent question," she muttered, but there's no real weight of feeling behind her words, and Skittery disregards them.

"Because I like you."

He could hear her breath catch in her throat. Licking his lips, nervous for the first time in years, he could smell her perfume. Leaning in, he kissed her, softly at first. The feeling which had lain sleeping for so long awakened with a vengeance, but it was she who kissed him back, who held his face between her hands, who returned his openness with a fierceness of her own, genuine and unexpected, and who, with a wrench of pain, separated them. She broke through his weakened arms, giving him a fleeting look of confusion and ignited passion, and ran up the stairs to her apartment, leaving him standing out on the street.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The thick curls bounced amiably in front of him, and he could hear the trills of laughter, but they seemed so far away. It was the best he could do to keep them in sight. His legs felt like lead, but he knew that he was working them as hard as possible. And yet, she was quickly outpacing him. Her head turned slightly, and she called his name over her shoulder, lightly admonishing him to hurry up. Skittery tried to open his mouth to call to her to slow down – why was it so hard? Why did it feel as if it were stitched shut? He put a hand up to his face. Was that the feel of thread beneath his fingers? He started to well up with panic and – whap! The front of Race's hand had just landed squarely on Skittery's twitching foot, which, like every night, was hanging at least fourteen inches over the end of the bed.

"Hey, Skittery!" Race called. "Rise and shine! The early bird catches the worm, and the early Newsy gets all the best customers."

Skittery lay there for a moment, lost in the upsurge of emotions from his dream.

"C'mon now! Up, up, up!" Race yelled on his way to the bathroom.

Groaning, he rolled himself off the top bunk, landing with practiced, if heavy, grace.

"You've been awful tired these days, Skittery," another Newsy remarked as he limped along. "Why is that?"

"That ain't none 'a your business, Crutchy. No offence," he added as he caught sight of Crutchy's face, which had fell slightly at the response of his friend.

"Ya gotta admit, boy, it's pretty mysterious," Jack chimed in. "You's always headin' out at night in the same direction, and y'never gets back until the middle hours 'a th'night. I knows – I seen ya come in sometimes."

Skittery assumed an air of indifference, topped with a noise of faint and quickly fading interest at the Cowboy's theory, but, in spite of that, his nightly disappearances were the topic of conversation all the way to Weasel's daily operation.

"Maybe he's really an undercover bull, watching out for us poor Newsies and makin' reg'lar reports to the chief of police," Mush suggested as they queued up to get their papers.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Kid Blink agreed enthusiastically. "Ev'ry night, he sneaks out t'rough the streets and rendezvous wit' the top guns in the department. 'Course, they gotta pay him a lot to make him hang 'round wit' us, don't they, boys?"

This last comment was met with a raucous shout of laughter from all the boys in the vicinity. Skittery sauntered up to the counter.

"Hun'red paps, please."

The boy behind the counter was staring at him, with a look on his flat face of intense curiosity and intrigue. Skittery had never seen him stare so unabashedly at anyone else before, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe they weren't intimidating him enough, and he now felt securely enough to take liberties with the Newsies. Everyone knew the flat-faced boy was a rat, as was his brother, and that they required constant aggravating in order to keep them in line.

"What're ya staring at, Oscar, you little bastard?" Skittery demanded pulling the best grimace he could muster over the hard yet handsome lines of his face.

Oscar sneered.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Hun'red paps," Weasel interrupted. "Now you got your paps, so go."

Throwing the boy one last look of contempt, Skittery shoved the dirty papers into his arms, and headed out, back held firmly rigid in a stance of boldness and fearlessness. Oscar didn't bother him, and he was damn sure he was going to let that jerk know it. The flat-faced boy merely watched him walk away, the look of incredulousness once again smeared unnoticed over his countenance. Race walked up to the counter. Watching the face of the boy on the other side of the cold iron bars separating supplier and worker, he made a noise of contempt which instantly arrested the other's attention. Then, while still in the limelight, he spit, disgusted, in front of the counter.

"Fifty paps, _if_ you mind, Weasel."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Lost in thought, Skittery absentmindedly played with one of the curls from the thick outpouring covering half his chest and most of one of his arms. He loved to play with Clara's hair. Unlike the hair he most frequently came into contact with (that of his own and the other newsboys), her hair was soft, clean, and pliable. Particularly when he was worried or stressed, like he was tonight, wrapping the long locks in his dexterous fingers helped him unwind. Clara dozed serenely, her face resting with the heaviness of unconsciousness on his bare chest. Skittery frowned. The thoughts he had been mulling over seemed to be coming close to fruition.

"Clara?"

She moaned softly, pushing a sleepy fist into her eye. Twisting, she positioned herself so that she could see into his face.

"What is it, James?"

"Well, I've been thinkin' 'bout things, and the way they is – " He hesitated. Confusedly, he stared up at the slightly molding ceiling. "And I just wondered how come it is that I am here, right now, when, if the truth be told, I oughtn'ta be so."

Clara, who had her hand resting on Skittery's chest, suddenly felt all the muscles grow taut, as if he had resolutely trapped all the air in his lungs, awaiting her answer.

"What d'ya mean, here, right now?"

Her hand sank violently.

"Do you mean, what are you doing in my bed?"

Skittery, still staring resolutely at the overhead beams, nodded convulsively. Clara sighed. Her face slowly twisted into one of pain and loneliness, and she sat up, facing away from her lover.

"Y'know, we've been seeing each other for some time now, James. You walked me home every night for three and a half months, and each night, I could see, you were falling more and more." She turned to face him. "'S not like I blame you; I don't. You can't blame a guy for something happening to yourself at the same time." She again fixed her gaze away from him. "I know what I am now, and I know how you feel 'bout it. I'm not an average woman a man comes courtin'."

With a movement of disgust and a short bark of empty laughter, she pulled the covers around her naked body more completely. For an instant, she sat rigidly, her whole body practically shaking with defiance, and then she went limp. When she turned to face him, however, her eyes blazed. Leaning forward, Clara brought her face close to his and caressed his cheek with her thumb.

"The reason you are in my bed is because I want you in my bed."

She sighed again, fleetingly, then stood and began dressing.

"You need to start headin' out. It's getting dark, and my boss will be wantin' me t'work tonight."

Skittery, suddenly feeling like a cad for challenging her intentions, stood up too, and stepped into his pants, snapping the suspenders into place. Clara turned slightly at the noise, and made a face. He couldn't help but grin.

"What?" he asked in a pretend stung voice, coming over behind her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her gingerly on the neck.

"It's nothing," she said irritably. "You just look so damn cute in your suspenders."

"Clara," Skittery breathed into her neck, nuzzling the edge of her collarbone the way he knew drove her crazy. He felt her melt slightly and her knees shake almost imperceptibly. Lifting his head, he caught her firmly around the shoulders with one arm, and tipped her deftly, so that she was resting in his embrace, looking up into his face. With his other hand, he traced her jaw line. The annoyance faded reluctantly but quickly from her harried face.

"Clara," he whispered again. "I don' know if you know this yet, but I love you."

At this, she promptly burst into tears, struggling to escape from his clasp.

"Please don't say that," she sobbed, staggering around the room, straightening already perfectly aligned pieces of furniture and moving small objects from one surface to another. Skittery, confused and hurt by this sudden turn of events, grabbed her wrist, and tried to turn her by force to look at his face.

"Why? Why shouldn't I say it? It's the truth!" So far, despite all his gentle tugging, he had only succeeded in folding her into his chest. She had shrunk further into herself, and periodic sobs raked through her body, as if she was determined to touch as little of him as possible.

"Don't you see?" came the strangled question. "I can't be with you."

With a look of incredulity, Skittery began stroking her hair.

"Gimme one good reason why not."

Wildly, she looked up into his face.

"Oh, James ----" She rubbed the tears from her face frantically, as she searched for words. "You don't know what it's like. Please don't torment me. You say things like you love me, but I hear that from men all night long, who parade through here and who only want one thing – to fulfill some kind of twisted fantasy. You don't know what it's like to only be a commodity. It's a degredation. Sometimes, I wash my hands over and over and over again, because I think that if I can get my hands clean, at least, then it will be a start to feeling clean all over. But no matter how many times I wash my hands, more men come through here and make me feel as if I'll never get clean again. Just to satisfy their sick fancies! If that's all you're here for as well, I think I would rather die."

Skittery looked as if he was about three years old and his mother had inexplicably deserted him. Mouth gaping open and tears falling unnoticed, he feebly reached out his hands to her.

"No, no, no, no, no," he mumbled. Each successive "no" got louder and more intense, until he dropped weakly to his knees at her feet. Grabbing hold of one of her hands, he pulled her to the floor with him.

"My darling," he said deliberately but fervently, his eyes betraying the desperateness which kept his voice steady, "I love you for who you are. Not for your profession. I despise and abhor what you do. I want ta take you away from here, t'save you from those who would hurt you. I never want you to feel unclean, especially with me. Aw, doncha see?" With one trembling hand, he reached up to stroke her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "I can't live without you. You're my life, now."

Her lip trembled, as if she were fighting an internal battle, but then one side or the other won, for she flung her arms around his neck, picking up her sobbing afresh. Suddenly weak, Skittery cradled her in his arms as she went limp, caressing her and murmuring her name. Slowly, her heaving chest became more even and steady. Carefully, he kissed the closed lids of her eyes. Resolutely, she opened her eyes and looked into his face.

"I love you, too, James."

A sharp rap broke into the muted spell of the room.

"Miss Clara!" cried a voice, cheerful and cruel at the same time.

She ran a hand desperately under her eyes, wiping her cheeks of emotion.

"Yes?" Skittery almost jumped at the voice that he heard. For all the crying she had just been doing and the declaration of love she had just made him, the voice was light, laid back, and velvety. Somehow, she had managed to transform the first part of her into a silky seductress in mere seconds.

"I believe there's someone out here who wants very much to talk with you for an hour or so," came the weirdly chipper reply.

Clara's eyes widened in fear. There was absolutely no way she was going to let her boss find her in here with Skittery. He might kill Skittery, and she didn't know if she would be able to stop herself from throwing her body underneath the rain of blows showering on his lifeless body. Frantically, she motioned towards here large wardrobe.

"In?" Skittery mouthed, instantly overly cautious for her sake.

She nodded, her head wobbling on her neck dangerously fast, and scooted him with a shooing motion toward the wardrobe door. Just as he was mostly into the closet, he stole the quickest of kisses before withdrawing lightning-fast into hiding, and safety. The door burst open. One second more, and the wardrobe might have become their coffin.

"Well, my pretty, here's the gentleman now!" The owner of the voice, a thin man with ropy muscles barely concealed under his shirt sleeves, pushed a middle-aged, balding man into the room. "I'm sure you have lots to talk about!" And with that, they were alone again, with no trace of the thin man left except for the rapid footfalls of his trot down the stairs.

"Hello, Miss," the balding man stuttered, holding his hat awkwardly. Clara stared at him from across the room, leaning up against the wardrobe door. As soon as he had walked in that door, she guessed – no – knew exactly what he wanted and how to be that. She had sized him up, weighed his various insecurities and fantasies against one another, picked the likeliest bet, and ran with her instincts. Casually, she eyed him from under her eyelashes, absentmindedly running a hand over the seam on her dressing gown which kept the parts the "gentleman" was most interested in hidden. He watched her look him over, evaluating him, for a moment. There it was. That same, hungry, consuming look she had seen on the faces of so many men as they came and went through her arms. It was always the same. Then, he turned to put his hat on her dressing table. As if it were a sign, she sprang nimbly across the room.

"Oh, but wouldn't you like your hat?" She picked it up, positioning her body in such a way so that as she helped him pick up his hat, his arm and hand rubbed suggestively across certain still concealed areas of her body. Turning her face to him, she laughed apologetically, smiling sweetly. "It's just – well – when I saw you, I thought you were very romantic-looking. Now don't laugh! It's true! And I thought that such a romantic-looking man would want to take a walk with a lonely young lady onto the roof to look at the stars."

Clara looked at him plaintively, batting her eyelashes. The man, who had been standing with his mouth vaguely opening and closing like a goldfish, snapped it shut and motioned soundlessly toward the door. She smiled so sweetly again.

"My thoughts exactly. Now, you start on up those stairs. I just want to grab something from my wardrobe over here, darling."

She watched him as he reluctantly left the room. She waved the last inch of him out the door, then she ran noiselessly to the wardrobe and flung the door open wide enough for her to stick her head in.

"Run! Go on, you must get out of here, now! Take the back stairs and go!"

"Will I see you again tomorrow?" He ached in every corner of his soul for her. She looked beyond him, her eyes calculating the risks and rewards.

"I think so. Look for me at our place, at our time."

For a moment, the panic drained away and her face softened. The thought crossed her mind that hiding her lover in the closet was much preferable to burying him. Quickly, she kissed him fervently on the lips.

"Now go, my love. Go."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Skittery paced. He had been jumpy all day long, and had snapped at each and every one of his friends throughout the course of the day. He couldn't help it. He was so worried. Mush watched him pace. Truthfully, he had never seen his friend so agitated. Skittery was the type of guy who kept to himself, and expected the others to do so, too. That being said, he put up with his now concerned friend pretty well. Mush could barely keep his thoughts in his head. He was always blurting out everything that crossed his mind, and it usually didn't matter to him what anyone else knew. Skittery, on the other hand, was guarded. Only once had Mush ever heard him speak of his family or his life before coming to this boardinghouse. In fact, he hadn't been at this boardinghouse a long time – just long enough to become a regular and make friends. His friend, however, had been at the boardinghouse for three or four years now – he was losing count. Ever since his father died and his mother ran off to California with another man, he had been a Newsy and had lived in that same flea-infested, smelly hole of an establishment. He had seen them come and seen them go, and there were few others who had lived there as long as he. As far as he could figure, only the Cowboy and Race had been there longer. Not that he minded; he didn't need or want the respect and servitude offer to the boys who had been around the longest by those who had been around the shortest. Mush chuckled faintly. He still remembered the day Skittery walked in.

It had been pouring rain all day, and the streets ran with sludge and filth. Night was falling, and the gas lamps were spluttering in the moist-filled, smoggy New York air as Mush beat his way home. Every bone in his body ached. It had been a long, long day. Hardly anybody was out in the awful weather, and the rain made it difficult to keep the newspapers dry. By evening, he had at least twenty papers left that were soaked beyond recognition and completely unsellable. That was twenty papers worth of money that could have been food, or tomorrow's paper in better weather. He sighed heavily. Combined with the bitter cold, Mush's feet were dragging as he slogged through the mud to the boardinghouse. That night, a figure slouched against the wall next to the door, puffing away lazily at a cigarette, and looking like he was the only person not ruffled by the rain in the slightest. Despite the cold, an overcoat was thrown over the stranger's shoulder. A broken-down cap that looked as if it had never been new topped off the whole picture. Mush took one look at him – he was a Newsy alright. What else could he be? As he walked up the steps to the porch, the stranger hailed him.

"Is this a Newsies' boardinghouse?"

Mush hesitated, drawing himself up straighter. The newcomer was, after all, a newcomer and needed to be treated as such. This guy had better be polite.

"That's right. Why d'ya wanna know?"

The stranger laughed, low and deep, almost inaudible under the rain. A slight smile twisted the corners of his mouth, and Mush realized, in a distant way, that this new boy was handsome.

"I's just wonderin' if I could get a bed. That's all."

He took one last, loving drag on his cigarette, then threw it at his feet and stamped it out. Mush instantly softened an inch. This guy didn't seem that threatening. Sure, he had a casual confidence that made Mush feel younger and inferior in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. Sure, the stranger had answered the questions in a manner just as terse as the manner in which they were asked. But for all that, Mush liked him.

"C'mon in. What's your name, friend?"

"Skittery," the newcomer replied.

"How'd ya get that name?"

He laughed again, again in that same, intriguing way.

"I guess it's 'cause I don't stick around too long. What's your name?"

"Mush."

"I'd say that's just as unusual as Skittery. Why'd ya get that one?"

"'Cause I actually like what they serve for breakfast here once a week, if they serve it at all."

This time, Skittery laughed loudly, his whole undernourished frame shaking.

"You don't say?"

Now, watching his friend, Mush began to worry. He'd never seen Skittery this worked up about anything before. Even during the strike, he complained about the price jack-up like everyone else, but there was still an underlying stoicism to his attitude. With his posture, his tone of voice, even his facial expressions, he intimated that, while unfortunate, he had seen and lived through many other experiences which were much worse, and would continue to do so until his dying day. Ultimately, everything fazed him less than the other Newsies. Tonight, it was a different story. That almost lackadaisical, devil-may-care slouch was gone, and he no longer seemed to be the Newsy who could roll with the punches, sometimes literally, better than any of the others.

"Skittery, you're gonna wear a hole in the sidewalk," Mush ejaculated, shaking his head solemnly.

"Aw, Mush!" Skittery rounded on his friend for an instant, then returned immediately to his increasingly frantic movements outside the boardinghouse. His friend's face contorted in a frown. He was really worried now. Usually, Skittery explained how exactly Mush was being stupid, but to have him brush off the comment so easily, with no brusque but brief lecture accompanying it was downright bizarre. Skittery stopped tiredly, turning his face down the street away from his companion. A few scattered souls continued on their way, unaware of the young man's state of disturbance.

"Y'know, I think I'm gonna try and walk this out," Skittery announced suddenly, turning back to Mush with phenomenal speed. Just as quickly, he had once again rounded on his heel, and was walking swiftly away from the boardinghouse. Race walked up to the boardinghouse, staring after Skittery, who had passed him with barely a word of greeting.

"Where's he goin' in such a rush? And doesn't he normally go in the other direction?"

Mush shrugged. He had done enough guessing for one day. Someone else, however, had noted the course. After a few minutes, Mush and Race headed in to bed and a few hours of forgetful, death-like sleep. The silent observer arose from his hiding place in the shadows and, with barely distinguishable footfalls, headed off in the same direction as Skittery. Quickly, however, he realized he was out of his depth. He'd never followed anyone before – at least, not from this distance. Usually, they were still in sight. Embarrassed and confused, he paused at the entrance to an alleyway, the light from the lamps throwing strange shadows on his face. Even the shadows couldn't hide the fact that his face was unusually flat. Cursing under his breath, he swiveled his head, trying to find some trace of his prey. And, there it was – just there, almost out of sight – a worn cap on a shaggy head, and a wrinkled brown coat. The neutrals blended in well with the drab scenery, but the flat-faced pursuer's eyes were long accustomed to distinguishing variations of browns, grays, and blacks from each other, even in a murky twilight such as this. Instantly starting up, he hurried along the alleyway. The second he reached the end of the corridor where he had seen his quarry, he had to look frantically around again. This time, it was easier to find what he was looking for – there, at the end of the street. He was doubling back. Now, why would this Newsy be deceiving his pals, by going off in one direction while really meaning to take another? The predator was determined to find out the answer to that, and to many other questions. Presently, after many unexpected glances over the prey's shoulder forced the predator to duck ridiculously into shop fronts and small alleyways, a young woman came into view.

"Clara!" Skittery's voice echoed loudly on the cobblestones.

The woman turned, her face filled with a sad happiness. As she moved toward him, her skirts rustled slightly, giving the unnoticed observer the impression that they might have been angel wings, she was so pretty.

"Oh, James, I'm so sorry about last night," she began.

"It's not a problem," Skittery firmly said, interrupting her.

The observer noticed her face grow pale, and she looked worried and harried, even from a distance.

"There's a larger problem still."

Skittery and the flat-faced boy both waited.

"It's my employer – we call him "Mister" – he has started to notice that I'm not bringing in much money. He's starting to wonder where it's going. He says I used to make so much money." She paused. The air quivered in suspense. "He says that if I don't start performing like I used to, he'll let me go."

"But that's alright, isn't it? I mean, then you can do something else and you won't be under his control anymore, right?"

"No, James, no! That's _not _what it means!" Clara burst out, her voice shaking with barely suppressed emotion. The predator watched her shoulders shake with silent sobs. "It means that he'll kill me!"

Skittery stood, silent. The onlooker wondered that he was still upright. He thought vaguely that if he had been watching them from the opposite direction, he might have seen that the prey's mouth was hanging open in surprise. At least, that's what it looked like from where he crouched. Slowly, Skittery gathered the frightened Clara into his arms.

"What happens if you don't give the money to your brother? Is it that big 'a deal?" Skittery asked after a few minutes.

"If I don't give him the money, then he can't go to school. All my parents ever wanted was for us to go to school, and he's the only one left who can, and I'm the only one who can put him through."

"What about your other brother?"

She shook her head in a melancholy, heavy way.

"He can't even feed himself or keep a real shirt on his back. And here I am with a new petticoat!"

The sobbing returned in full force.

"Yeah, but Mister _gave_ you that petticoat not a fortnight ago."

"Oh, James, it still would do no good, my darling."

"Why not? Tell me why not."

She hesitated.

"Well, I – I'm not as good as I used to be at my job, and, well, I've been doing other things during the day to make ends meet, to make Mister think I work more than I do. If I were to try and make more money to compensate for what I lose when I send my brother help. . .I'm not sure I can do it."

"Can't you take some of my money?"

"You can barely feed yourself, either. You don't think I've noticed how thin you are, and how evasive you are about when you've last eaten? You can't fool me."

Skittery hung his head in shame, but then, a passing thought raised his shoulders again.

"Clara, what if you were to leave?"

She laughed bitterly.

"There is no leaving Mister. Once you're with him, you're with him for life – he'll see to that."

"But what if we could – just if – we could escape somehow – get away from this place. Why, between the two of us, we could make enough to live and support your brother. I could get real solid work, and so could you, workin' in a fac'try or some otherwheres. . ." His voice trailed off. The observer spied an opportunity, and with it, long hidden feelings of hatred, scorn, jealousy, and hurt welled up inside of him, until a burning, furious fire raged through his whole body, leaving no part untouched by the licking flames.

"Let's not think on it again, tonight, but sleep on it. What do you say?"

Skittery answered by kissing her furrowed forehead with the utmost tenderness. In the shadows, the antagonist quietly slipped away.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Corpse dredged up from the river with t'ree heads! Experts say it's from Brooklyn!"

Skittery turned sharply, seeking out the new voice in the area. Whoever it was, he had to admit that that was a pretty sensational headline. Just his luck – the best things are always buried on the next to last page – the page where a Newsy least expects. His eyes scanned the thronging crowd at the fight. The other Newsies in the area knew he liked to sell alone at this ring – who was poking around? Then, his gaze lit on Jack. He grinned, caught the Cowboy's eye, and motioned for him to join him. He sat. Jack pushed his way through the chaos to join Skittery on a pile of empty crates, stacked for just such an occasion.

"Hey, Skit," Jack said, as he plopped down on one of the crates.

"Hey y'self. How's business?"

Jack shrugged, determined to be noncommittal, as usual.

"It's business. How's life?"

Skittery laughed.

"Life? Life is complicated."

"And why should that be?" Jack demanded. "You're a small-time Newsy (no offense, pal), who's makin' peanuts like the restuv us, and spending your free time worryin' 'bout what's gonna happen tomorra." He nodded his head with sarcastic conviction. "See? Straight-forward!"

Skittery laughed, but shook his head. As if seeing his friend for the first time, the Cowboy tilted his head and peered at him.

"What're ya lookin' at me like that, for?" Skittery asked, taken aback by Jack's blunt expression.

"I'm lookin' to see if the Newsy sittin' here in front 'a me is indeed my true pal and buddy Skittery."

He leaned forward dramatically, poking his head out further for effect. Skittery grinned and pushed him back.

"'A 'course it's me – who else would it be?"

Jack shrugged.

"I don' know, but you ain't been the same in some time. Now's I think back, you's been kinda funny since that night with the run-in with that girl." Suddenly, all joking aside, he looked stern. Skittery instinctively jerked backward, away from Jack, and kept his balance on the flimsy crates only by waving his arms in a ridiculous way a circus clown might be envious of. Jack nodded knowingly.

"Uh-huh. I thought so. And then later y'asked me about her ag'in, after I tol' ya to ferget 'er!" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. He stared at Skittery with a look of unsurprised seriousness. "You're involved with her, ain'tcha?"

Skittery stared at the ground for a few instants, then met Jack's eye with his own ferocity.

"Yeah, I am. So? Who cares?"

Jack's jaw clenched involuntarily.

"I cares. And I assume you know by now what she does for a livin'."

Skittery glared at him and ground his teeth. The thought flashed across Jack's mind that while his friend may be shorter than some, he was by no means easy to overcome in a fistfight.

"I know," he growled.

Jack waited. When he got no response, his expression changed to one of pure astonishment.

"And it's okay wit' you?" he exclaimed. "It sure as hell would _not_ be alright wit' me, that's for certain." He ruminated. "It's bad enough when other fellas so much as _looks _at Sarah, let alone does what probably hundreds of guys have done with your dame."

Skittery leaped off the crates, his fists instantly raised and his handsome features foul and twisted into an ugly snarl.

"Don't you say that about my girl," he bellowed at Jack.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there! I was just telling the truth," Jack shouted as he too jumped off the now scattered make-shift seats. "Now, let's all calm down, and how's about I put the truth in a more delicate fashion next time, huh?"

A few spectators had turned around to look at them, deciding that their fight was more interesting than the featured one, but their tiff had gone unnoticed by the majority of the crowd in all the tumult. Skittery kept his fists raised, but his breathing had eased some. Jack put up his hands in a gentle gesture. Trying to smile slightly, he reached out and patted his friend on the shoulder. The fists lowered slowly. Suddenly, Skittery slumped.

"I'm sorry, Cowboy. I don't know what got inna me."

"Aw, it's alright. You was just defending your dame. I understands."

"Usually it's not so bad. I try not to think about it, and since I don't have any faces to put in the blanks, I tend to do okay. Not being too upset about it, I mean." He glanced at the position of the sun in the sky, and grimaced at the heavens. "If I was to know a name, though, or have a face – " Jack heard, rather than saw, a loud smacking noise. When he looked up at his friend, he was rubbing his knuckles with a murderous expression on his face. The Cowboy shifted nervously in his seat, making quiet noises of agreement. Skittery, his attention instantly diverted, watched Jack. The more he stared, the more uncomfortable Jack seemed to get. He kept shifting in his seat, and he wouldn't look at Skittery.

"Jack," he began, suspicious. "Do you happen to know someone who has been a customer of my girl's?"

Jack made a soft popping noise with his lips and observed the match intensely.

"Don't you do that to me, Jack. I knows your tricks and manners. I knows when you's lying to me. Or keeping something from me." He glared. "So fess up."

The Cowboy heaved a sigh and turned to look at Skittery.

"So you know how her brudda works in Spot's territory? Spot's right-hand man?" Skittery nodded curtly. "Let's just say that brudda didn' get that job, right nice and important like, because Spot's got a generous heart."

Everything went black for a few seconds, but it seemed like years to Skittery. Long years full of anguish, where his only thought was of death and revenge. Black gave way to red. He wanted to kill Spot Conlon – wanted to make him writhe in agony, squirm under the severity of Skittery's merciless control. Jack's voice intruded into his visions of distributing pain and punishment.

"Hey, Skit! Skittery!" His sight returned unexpected. He blinked, owlish, in the broad light of day. Jack looked concerned. "You looked as if you was havin' some kinda fit. . .I shouldn'a tol' ya nothin'." He slumped over, his whole mein weary and full of regret.

"It's okay, Jack," Skittery snarled quietly. "It's not like I'm gonna have a chance to do anythin' 'bout it, so stop beatin' y'self up, a'ight?"

The Cowboy's head snapped back upright.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, glaring piercingly at his friend.

Skittery glared right back.

"I jus' mean that, for one reason or another, it may never even come up."

He stared fixedly at the fight. Jack eyed him

"Hey, Skit, we're still alright, ain't we?"

"Sure," the other answered without hesitation.

"You're not mad at me for the whole Spot thing, is ya?"

"Naw, naw. You's just doin' whatcha thought was right by tellin' me. But listen – " he hopped off the crates, grabbing up his still unsold paps " – I gotta get goin'. I still's got all these paps to move. I'll see ya later, alright?"

With a wave of his hand, he disappeared with a practiced seamlessness into the crowd, leaving Jack staring at his uncommunicative back.

------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Mister, it's Oscar."

"Oscar? Oscar?"

"You remember . . . the Newsy with not enough money for your precious girls."

The last few words were flecked with bitterness. The owner grunted in response and recognition.

"If you're back for Clara, you'd better have more money ready than last time. She's gone up in price considerably since your last visit."

"No, sir, I'm not back for her. But I do have some information concerning one of your girls you might be grateful to have."

Mister looked up.

"Oh?"

Oscar shook his head sadly.

"Aw, Mister, you don't think information comes for free, do ya?"

The pimp eyed him.

"How much is it going to take?"

Oscar shrugged.

"Oh, I don't know . . . see, I want to leave town and go out west. I hear there's lotsa opportunities for a bright young man out west . . . I reckon I'll need thirty dollars."

"Thirty dollars?" Mister exploded with incredulity. "Thirty dollars just to set up out west? I'll give you fifteen, _if_ your information is good."

"I won't take less than twenty-five."

Mister eyed him again. The flat face was set, the eyes dead and flinty.

"Twenty; and that's my final offer."

"Twenty it is, then, sir. Shake?"

Mister grimaced, but shook.

"And, may I have my payment before I speak, sir?"

Grumbling, the thin, muscled man shuffled over to a safe in a corner of the room. Careful to obscure every part of the combination with his body, the container clicked open. He withdrew twenty dollars, and deposited them, after again meticulously closing the safe, dollar by crisp dollar, into Oscar's hands.

"Now, then, start talking."

Oscar, the bills folded securely in his pocket, began to bask in the spotlight, purposely delaying the start for dramatic effect.

"Well, now, what is it you hate the most for your girls to have?"

Mister contemplated for a moment then answered with conviction.

"Lovers."

"And, what's the other thing you hate the most about your girls?"

Again, Mister inclined his head in thought for a few seconds before answering in an authoritative voice.

"When they don't make the money like they oughta."

"Exactly. And what do you do to the girls who do either of those two things?"

This time, he answered instantly.

"I make 'em disappear."

Oscar bent over the sinewy man.

"Well, I happen to know that one of your girls is doing both. And not only are you not getting the money you're supposed to, it's because she's just not giving it to you. She has other purposes for that money than your wellbeing. In addition, she has a dirty, scummy lover, who has been sneaking in and out of this establishment for weeks, taking up precious time that could be spent earning you well-deserved money, sir."

Mister had been coiling a rope around his hands while Oscar spoke. He pulled at them until his knuckles turned white.

"Who is it?" he asked in a voice of calculated fury.

Oscar bent down, and looked him in the eye.

"Clara."

Mister flung himself out of his seat suddenly, sending the chair crashing to the ground.

"You's gotta be lying," he demanded loudly. "You's just upset that you couldn't afford her, and now you wanna make her pay."

For the first time since the interview began, Oscar balked.

"I's not lying to you, sir, honest. Follow her around for a few days if you don't believe me; I did – all I've said is true. I can even tell you where she sends the money – to a younger brother who's in school."

The pimp stood, chest heaving, in the middle of the room, his eyes unfocused at an unknown point beyond Oscar. The young man cleared his throat.

"My work here is done. I'll be goin' now."

And with that, he left.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Clara wrung her hands nervously. Standing in the light, misting rain, she looked slightly bedraggled, but with the elegant curves of her hat and the eloquent lines of her face, she looked beautiful. She, however, disregarded the approving whistles and up-and-down glances from men who passed her on the street, with or without ladies on their arms. She wrung her hands again. Her mind buzzed with the myriad of loose thoughts tumbling around in there. Oh, but there were so, so many things that could go wrong. Why she had ever agreed to this plan, she didn't know – except that she loved Skittery more than anyone in the world. Danger seemed to wait in every shadow, every movement, and every sound. Perennially cautious, Clara's sense of impending doom had escalated of late, to the point where the past few periods of sleep had been completely devoid of rest. She would wake up, screaming, from vividly realistic dreams that, once awake, faded instantly, so that she could remember nothing but a loud noise, excruciating pain, and inescapable terror. Periodically, she would glance over her shoulder. In addition to all her other woes and worries, she had felt like someone was following her recently, eyes keeping tabs on her whereabouts, filing information away for some sinister and unknown purpose. Yet, she had kept all of this from Skittery. Trying to avoid a sooner flight, which would have caused problems, she shoved what she deemed to be "woman's worries" into the background. The rain continued to drip onto the streets of New York. She sighed, the sound coming out impatient and desperate. Wells of emotion seemed to float under the crust of her calm, like lava underneath a plate of earth, ready to explode at any time. Suddenly, a shape appeared out of the night. She jumped.

Skittery hurried out of an alleyway toward her.

"Ready t' go?"

"Yes, please!"

He turned to look at her, his eyes boring into her.

"Are you alright?" he asked after a minute.

"I'm fine," she said distractedly, trying to extricate herself from his gaze.

He raised a hand to cup under her chin, and she noticed his knuckles here raw and newly scabbed, like he had gotten in a fist-fight earlier in the day.

"Are you sure?"

Clara's eyes shifted away from him over his shoulder. Then, she let out a small scream. Skittery whipped around.

"What? What is it? Did you see something?"

Her mouth hung open, and she gaped in fear at something unseen over his shoulder. He examined the opposite alleyway with painstaking care.

"I don' see anythin'."

She licked her lips.

"I guess I must've been seein' things." She drew in a shaky breath. "Let's go."

He picked up her travelling case. After all this, it seemed almost too light. He turned away.

"Hey! You! Stop!"

They both twisted back, toward the way both had come, seeking out the dim voice. They couldn't see anyone yet in the gloom.

"Yeah, you! Stop!"

"See? I told you, Mister," came another voice. Skittery's skin turned cold and clammy as he recognized Oscar's voice. "I told you they was trying to get away.

"James!" Clara called out to him, her voice high-pitched with fright. He clenched his jaw and moved toward the alley as two figures came slowly out of it.

"What do you want?" he bellowed at them, reverting to his most aggressive male posture – legs spread wide, chest thrown up and head down.

The other man chuckled quietly, almost bitterly.

"I just want to have my own way."

Right then, the man pulled out a gun, and time and events blurred. Everything blackened in a tunnel, until all Skittery saw was the gun and the end of his own life, staring at him from a hole filled with death. He closed his eyes, and then something pushed him backwards, but not hard enough for him to fall over. From a distance, he heard the report of the gun, sharp and definite. He opened his eyes, and Clara lay on the ground, bleeding.

"No!"

Mister stood at the other end of the street, holding the smoking gun in his hand. There was nothing but cold business in his eyes.

"No!" Skittery fell to the ground beside her. Frantically, he brushed back the blood-soaked hair from her face, her beautiful, blank face. His hands shook. Why couldn't she see him? Why didn't she say anything? Surely she wasn't dead. She couldn't be dead. It was an unequivocal impossibility. He shook her shoulders, and lifted her up so that he held her in his arms, off the cold, damp ground. Her lips were parted. His fingers found the bullet-hole. There it was – right in the middle of her left breast, with three inches of blood circling it in every direction. Slowly but surely, her life-force was ebbing out of her, forming a crimson pool around them. He began to scream, tears streaking down his face and mixing with the rain. Her last dream had come true – the terror, the loud noise, the pain. He couldn't bear the thought. Clutching her tighter to his chest, his eyes found Mister, who backed away as they locked onto him. Years later, on his own deathbed, he would say he never saw more furious and haunted eyes, glowing with hellfire as of their own volition, as the eyes of that young man that night.

She was dead. Clara was dead. Her hands, so active only minutes before with worrying about their fate, lay limply side by side, like two doves, struck by the hunter's blow and now broken. He pulled one up, kissed it, and then let it drop. It landed with a soft thud alongside its partner. Try as he might, he couldn't help himself. Skittery's body was still shaking, from the cold, from the shock, from the heartache, but still he tried to touch every last little part of her. He stroked her hair, he kissed her face, he traced her jaw line. Nothing helped resuscitate her. Nothing helped resuscitate him. He felt like he had fallen into a black void, where he may have strayed once in a while before, but now was inescapably trapped in for the rest of eternity. The darkness which she had so long kept at bay consumed him.

Oscar slowly sidled up to him, his movements betraying his fear. Mister had disappeared. If Skittery noticed the intruder, he gave no hint. He just kept caressing his only love's cold face.

"Skittery?"

He gritted his teeth and concentrated harder on a strand of blonde hair.

"Skittery, you better get outta here."

"Why do you care?" he snarled, turning his head to Oscar, who jumped back a foot as though he were about to be bitten by a wild animal. Skittery's face was hardly any different – twisted beyond recognition by hate, spite, sorrow and anger.

"I – I just wanted to letcha know Mister's coming back, this time with some buddies. You better get outta here." His will faltered, and he ran from the scene. Distantly, Skittery could hear the violent sounds of retching.

Later, he had no idea how long he sat there, but he decided it couldn't be more than a few minutes. His good sense told him he needed to leave, to run, to never look back. For once, he listened to it, even though when he left, he felt his heart rip out of his chest and stay with his bright, fallen angel where she lay in the dark pool of her own, noble blood. He looked back at her one last time, and, chest exploding, he ran into the god-forsaken night.


	10. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jack laced up his boot. He stared determinedly at his shoes, trying to avoid the innocent but unwanted gaze of Mush.

"You know what I heard, Jack?"

Jack grimaced, but braced himself. Here it comes again, he thought. He knew only too well that Mush didn't need an invitation to start talking. He gave him one anyway.

"Whad'ja hear, Mush?"

"I heard that Skittery's real far away, now," he began, looking down at Jack through sheepish eyes. "I heard he's all the way to Virginia, getting work as a Newsy down there."

"Yeah, well, best 'a luck to 'im."

Mush fidgeted.

"But do y'think he'll ever come back?"

"I don' think so," Jack sighed. "I thought he might after Oscar hanged his'self, but I guess it don' matter now. I'm sorry, Mush," he patted his friend on the shoulder, "but I think he's really gone for good."

It had been a long few months after the death of that girl. None of them had suspected that Skittery had had such a deep connection with her until he left unexpectedly a few days later. In a way, they all felt betrayed. He said nothing to them in parting – just left under cover of darkness. And they had heard nothing from him directly since. The reason for his nickname showed itself at last in its ugliest form, and he skittered away. Jack had watched for a few days, to see if maybe his friend only wanted some time away from the prying eyes and ears of the other Newsies, but after two weeks it became apparent that it was more than that. After Oscar hung himself, leaving behind a suicide note chronicling his part in the murder and his later inability to live with himself, Jack was sure that Skittery would show up at the boardinghouse, slouching against a pole and smoking a bummed cigarette. Mush hung on even longer, looking for the missed Newsy long after the others had become resigned to his absence, and hoping he might return. No such luck. Jack pulled on his coat and sighed once more for his friend. He knew firsthand how life could really mess with a man, leaving a trail of carnage in his life behind its wake of destruction, and he pitied Skittery. But he knew that somewhere, someday, Skittery would heal and maybe he would even make it back to them one day, years from now.

And then he turned and left to go carry the banner.


End file.
